She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Covered with houses, from one end to the other, this reverend and picturesque structure presented the appearance of a street across the Thames. His most eager inquiries and most lavish bribes could gain no further information than that she had left for England, and that her address was—London. She wanted to know. " "Not now, my love—not now," entreated Wood.
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